


Monster In Your Head

by BlueEyedArcher



Series: Monster Under The Bed [1]
Category: Vampyr (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Creatures & Monsters, Alternate Universe - Human, Dreams and Nightmares, Geoffrey is the Monster in Jonathan's head, Hallucinations, Jonathan thinks he's having a mental breakdown, M/M, No vampires, Sleep Paralysis, monsters aren't always scary
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-26
Updated: 2020-05-26
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:47:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24377491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueEyedArcher/pseuds/BlueEyedArcher
Summary: Dr. Jonathan Reid was not a man that believed in monsters. Not in the traditional sense anyway. He had spent many years facing down the true evils of humanity during the war. He had seen mankind rip one another to pieces at the whims of orders and the selfishness of their own nature as men. He had seen the whites of a dying man’s eyes and heard their cries for their loved ones as his hands worked quickly to try and put their intestines back inside their body cavity. Only to lose them to the inevitable, be it blood loss, shock or infection. He lost more than he saved and the pain that etched into his subconscious would follow him through the fickle landscape of his dreams and venture into the shadowy valley of his nightmares.He did not believe in the boogeyman nor did he humor those that did. He was a man of science after all. He believed in hard facts. In the real and tangible truth of the world. It was what grounded him. What inspired and motivated him beyond any obstacles that had fallen into his path. It was something he prided himself on. And yet….What he witnessed now was beyond any scientific comprehension. At least to a point.
Relationships: Geoffrey McCullum & Jonathan Reid, Geoffrey McCullum/Jonathan Reid
Series: Monster Under The Bed [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1760143
Comments: 6
Kudos: 39





	Monster In Your Head

**Author's Note:**

> This is an old AU idea I had played with for a different story a long time ago and I wanted to bring it back and polish it up again. It will be multiple parts through a series and I do hope it is satisfactory. I have a handful of ideas as to how this series could go (and against my better judgement I've now added another story to the list that I will be updating in intervals.)

Dr. Jonathan Reid was not a man that believed in monsters. Not in the traditional sense anyway. He had spent many years facing down the true evils of humanity during the war. He had seen mankind rip one another to pieces at the whims of orders and the selfishness of their own nature as men. He had seen the whites of a dying man’s eyes and heard their cries for their loved ones as his hands worked quickly to try and put their intestines back inside their body cavity. Only to lose them to the inevitable, be it blood loss, shock or infection. He lost more than he saved and the pain that etched into his subconscious would follow him through the fickle landscape of his dreams and venture into the shadowy valley of his nightmares. 

He did not believe in the boogeyman nor did he humor those that did. He was a man of science after all. He believed in hard facts. In the real and tangible truth of the world. It was what grounded him. What inspired and motivated him beyond any obstacles that had fallen into his path. It was something he prided himself on. And yet….

What he witnessed now was beyond any scientific comprehension. At least to a point.

He had been drawn from his sleep by a surreal sound. The shifting shadows scattered around his room had morphed into something sentient and formidable. A free standing specter that prowled along the edges of his peripheral, lurking with gnarled teeth and pointed fangs. With bloodied claws of bone and twisted limbs of exposed sinew curling with rotting muscle and flesh that hung in grisly clumps. Pale gums flashed in the darkness, a feral snarl as the creature stalked, eyeless at first before Jonathan realized its mangled body was crumpled inward. Polished bone exposed a cranial fracture that glistened in the pale light that pooled through his bedroom window. The cool air that drifted in through the window overlooking the balcony had grown as cold as a winter’s breath stealing into his lungs and suffocating him.

A pressure pinned him down on his bed, another shadow manifesting as boney claws reached out. The stench of rot and decay infested his nostrils with every struggling breath as he tried to twist free of the creature’s grasp. His voice was muted, any attempt to call for help left him gasping like a dying fish. His entire body felt numb and heavy, weighed down by the pressure that pinned him. His rational mind declared that none of this was real. Of course it couldn’t be real. It was a nightmare. Not like the ones he had endured during the war. This was far worse. More severe than it had any right to be. Like the corpses left behind on the streets during the epidemic when he returned. 

He felt the cold fist of dread curling into his chest and pulling at the fragile tissue of his lungs, playing them with careful strokes as he gasped and stuttered out for air. His head swam, a dizzying pain that made him nauseous. Their claws gripped at his shoulders as if they intended to drag him down the length of his bed. His eyes widened when a gleam of silver split the creature closest to him down the middle. It’s sickening scream was a shrill cry in the night that made his ears ring painfully. He wanted to cover them, to save himself the agony of the next one as silver glowed in the moonlight as it pierced the ribcage of the second.

A sword, Jonathan realized too late, as he inspected his would-be savior. A figure shrouded in shadows, strong and well built. From the silhouette he determined they were male but that was as far as he could acquire about their appearance. At least from this angle. They stayed in that slip of darkness between the windows and the balcony where slivers of moonlight slipped like a phantom gown across his floor. His savior removed the blade as the creature hissed and screeched, fading into shadows that evaporated like smoke from a candle wick. 

Jonathan felt a dizzying rush of relief crash together with the suffocating panic that his body remained paralysed still. The savior turned, blade wielded in hand before it was quietly sheathed, a hush of sound against the startling silence. Then the heavy footsteps of boots on the wood floors of his childhood home as the mysterious figure approached.

Jonathan’s relief turned to sudden horror as the man emerged into the pale light and exposed his visage to him. His head and shoulders were cloaked in a crimson veil, like velvet layered over in a mimicry of a death shroud. His uniform was familiar yet perverse in a way, a ragtag mixture of military form and a shabby gentleman, with a deep red scarf tucked around the throat and trailing down between the lapels over his breast bone. The sword on his hip was tucked out of sight behind the tail ends of his trenchcoat. Two large blackened wings unfurled like that of a massive crow’s, the moonlight glistened in blue streaks across each feather as they stretched. 

A gloved hand reached out for Jonathan, a quiet hush like a rush of air leaving hollow lungs. Fingers trailed from his brow, over his eyelids in a gentle stroke down his cheeks. The man’s fingertips then drew a line down his chest, a subtle pressure before the paralyzing desperation released him from it’s frightening grip. He sucked in a sharp breath and gasped, gulping in air in steady bursts as feeling started to slowly spread in his limbs. The man held a finger up to the veil, a hush against his lips before the dizziness pulled at Jonathan's consciousness once more. His last glimpse of the mysterious man was a flex of wings as he straightened up and loomed over him like a protective sentinel.

  
  


That terrifying night had shrouded Jonathan’s thoughts in a sickly veil of their own as he trudged through the routine of his everyday. His mind was far off in distant ponderings as he stooped over the nurse’s desk with a clipboard tucked under his hand. His pen left several small ink dots against the margins of the documents that he had yet to sign and date. Nurse Hawkins watched him with a curious expression as she shuffled files around, reorganizing the cabinets and updating their age old system.

“Are you alright, Dr. Reid?” She called for the third time, finally drawing his attention towards the forgotten document and then towards her where she crouched on the floor. Two crates sat on either side of her as she sorted the files.

“Oh, apologies Nurse Hawkins. Did you say something?” His face warmed with the soft pink shades of embarrassment reaching high up on his cheeks.

“I was wonderin if you were alright. You’ve been awfully quiet lately. Prone to daydreamin and the like.” She stated simply, giving a small circular gesture with her hand. “Did something happen?”

“No, nothing at all.” He assured. “I’ve just got a lot on my mind lately.” He sighed, a wistful sound as he worked his words around in his mouth. “Have you ever heard of the phrase _Deja Vu_ before Nurse?”

“I’m afraid I haven’t.” Nurse Hawkins stopped her work to give Dr. Reid her full attention. It was well known that during moments like this, when the good doctor asked such a question, it usually was followed up by a history lesson. 

“The phrase was first used by a french philosopher in the late 1800’s to describe a sensation of familiarity. As if you are experiencing something that you may have already experienced, or more specifically, reliving an event you feel as if you’ve already lived.” Jonathan purred in satisfaction as he considered it. What he suspected was a one time event in his life, he was starting to feel that familiar sensation that this may not have been his first encounter with the mysterious figure in his bedroom. There was this itch in the back of his brain that he couldn’t quite scratch but he was adamant to find it.

“So you’re saying you’re experiencing this deja vu thing?”

“I believe so. Maybe in a dream at some time. It’s honestly going to drive me mad trying to remember.” He huffed dismissively. “Alas, it’s not important. It’ll come to me when it so wishes.” He ducked his head and quickly signed off on the document before placing it down on the reception desk to be added to the pile Nurse Hawkins was sorting.

Jonathan let himself drift occasionally but reminded himself to focus when the tasks were of the utmost importance. His troubled and weary expression hadn’t gone unnoticed by his other colleagues and least of all by Dr. Swansea who seemed to always keep a close eye on him.

“Are you alright, Jonathan?” Edgar inquired cheerfully, that soft apologetic expression settling on his features. A childish innocence that would have been unbecoming of most men but it only added a strange variable to Dr. Swansea’s personality. As if he was far too naive despite his many years as a doctor. Jonathan assumed it was the eyes. They always seemed sad in a way, as if pained by the suffering of those around him. He had seen it often in colleagues, new to the job and too sensitive of heart to handle the losses. He had once seen it in himself when he was a novice intern, far too bright eyed and excited, fresh from medical school. A callous had spread over him in the following years as he learned that doctors were not miracle workers and the human body, much like the human spirit, was a fickle complicated puzzle that was run down and caged into deadly limitations.

“I’m fine Edgar.” Jonathan assured as he cupped his own jaw in puzzlement, contemplating a recent case that had come into the hospital. An ailment that first started with trouble in the liver had befuddled both Dr. Strickland and Dr. Ackroyd in how to properly treat the symptoms. Jonathan later realized the familiar symptoms were something he had come across once before in France while working with his mentor on his own research. His mind was split between the case and Dr. Swansea’s inquiries.

“Are you sure? You look a bit, well, run down.” Edgar pointed out, leaning around the edge of the desk in Jonathan’s office as he inspected the doctor’s workspace. Jonathan had books, notes and blood samples scattered about in a chaotic order that satisfied him in a state of hectic organization. Everything was where it should be despite looking completely hazardous in its placement. 

“I’ve just not been getting enough sleep. Strange dreams. Well, more specifically nightmares if I’m being honest.” Jonathan stated matter-of-factly. “Nothing to concern yourself with. It happens from time to time.”

Jonathan was certain that a nightmare was exactly what had transpired. It felt real, which was the most jarring part, but sometimes even the most feverish minds believe in complete lucidity and he didn’t doubt that his mind, as complex and startling as it often can be, was just as capable of such an outcome. He had nothing to fear, after all, monsters didn’t exist. They were the figments of stress addled minds plagued by some manner of illness or conflict projected in terrifying and oftentimes emotional ways as a form of coping with crossroads decisions or troubles in the waking world. It was not an easy battlefield to navigate in the slightest and the human mind, and more specifically the human subconscious was a realm all its own that had yet to be deciphered. And maybe, just maybe, it would remain that way.

But for now, he had more important matters to attend to.

  
  
  
  
  
  


Somedays he'd lose his head were it not attached to his body. Jonathan wasn't normally the forgetful type but when his mind descended into those dark depths where mystery and intrigue lured him further into the tides, he often forgot simple mundane things. It was his curse, he reasoned. Mary had often chided him about it in their younger years as she strutted around behind him picking up after him or retrieving items he had originally dismissed as lost for good only for them to appear as if by magic. His puzzlement wouldn't save him from his younger sister's teasing words.

The thought occurred as he was just settling into the warmth of his bed. The dredges of sleep curled over his mind like a satin shroud tossed over an ambitious songbird that defied the lunar cycle's need for silence. His racing thoughts hushed, slowly shutting down the louder more prominent parts of his brain as he prepared for a good night's sleep. Or so he hoped.

His mind had one last thought that came like a train whistle, jarring him awake in a state of alarm as he sat bolt upright in bed. "Did I turn the stove off?" He couldn't quite recall if the fire had gone out when he finished his tea. He stumbled out of bed and shuffled down the creaky wooden steps of his home to the ground floor. With only a thin robe to cover himself and guard against the chill of the night sneaking into the cracks and corners of his home, he inspected the stove with a furrowed brow as confusion ran amok.

He swore he forgot about it after his evening tea but the embers were long since cold and the kettle was chilled to the touch.

Satisfied that he wasn't at risk of accidentally burning the house down, he shuffled back up the steps to his room to return to that blissful state of sleep. As he repeated the cycle of shutting down his thoughts, he couldn't help but feel a nagging sense that he wasn't entirely alone in this big old house.

A few days had passed and Jonathan was thwarted by forgetfulness once again. He searched the entire house in a tizzy of desperation as he scoured every table, cabinet and cupboard for his keys. He had placed them somewhere, he swore they were on the entry table but when he looked, they weren't there. He spent nearly an hour searching for them, paced back and forth between the two floors and tried to back track his memory on the last time he saw them. Only when he was on the verge of giving up and accepting the loss for what it was, did he pace past the entryway and spied a familiar ring sticking out from between two potted plants.

Jonathan scratched thoughtfully at the back of his head as he considered the ring of keys and swore they weren't here this morning when he came looking for them. He rattled them around in his palm and glanced up when he thought he spotted a shadow shifting in his peripheral. When he looked up to greet it, he found there was nothing there. Only an empty wall.

The grandfather clock chimed angrily at him in reminder that he was going to be late soon if he didn't get going now. Snatching up his coat and scarf, he quickly slipped out the front door and locked up behind himself.

  
  
  
  
  


Jonathan had been pulling an all nighter against his better judgement. He was exhausted but the current case he was working on was too infuriatingly complicated for him to ignore. He had taken to sleeping on the cot in his office but sleep eluded him as his mind ran rampant with possibilities and symptoms. He couldn't rest until they figured this out. Both Strickland and Ackroyd were at their wits end and for once, they weren't bickering and arguing in their office. No idea was a stupid idea as they compiled possibilities onto a board and checked each off as they went along.

Even Nurse Branagan and Dr. Tippets were throwing in a hand and offering ideas when they came to them in between their own rounds and patients. 

He had been stooped over his desk for god knows how long, a painful twinge in his back had started to set in, a subtle pressure aligned with his spine that his weary mind mistook as a hand pressing against it. A gentle caress as if a friend were trying to guide him. He straightened up, half expecting to find Edgar had snuck into his office again without him noticing but there was nobody at his side. He lifted a confused brow when he noticed his bar stool was directly behind him. He didn't remember moving it from his workbench but he gratefully settled down to give his feet a break. He pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head, dismissing the cobwebs of weariness from his thoughts. Everything was getting so muddled up, he couldn't tell which end was up any more.

Which, coincidentally, led to him spilling a bottle. Luckily it only splashed his clothes and a little bit on his desk before it hit the ground. It had slipped from his grasp, a solution mixture he often used when testing blood samples. He jolted to his feet, nearly knocking the bar stool over, grimacing at the mess. He kept his hands out in front of him as he made his way towards the sink by the door. He bumped the faucet with the back of his hand, working the water flow open so he could scrub clean.

A stray movement caught the corner of Jonathan's eye, causing him to look up in the large reflective mirror above the sink. He froze in place when his eyes settled on the distorted figure warped by the angle and blemishes on the old antique mirror. But he knew it anywhere, the red shroud against the military-esque appearance of a uniform. The figure stood beside his desk at first then slowly in a leisurely stride, its footsteps approached. The quiet scuff of boots on the polished tile of his exam area sent a cold chill down his spine. Goosebumps spread across his arms as the hairs rose on the back of his neck.

Maybe he was terrified. Fear clenched around his heart like an iron maiden as it thundered within the confines to be freed. It took the ache in his lungs for Jonathan to realize he was holding his breath as the masked figure stopped just behind him. A gloved hand reached out to rest on his shoulder, a very real and tangible weight that pulled at his attention. He wanted to look but the thought of finding out that this _thing_ really existed was a frightening prospect. He sucked in a sharp breath, counted to three in his head and turned quickly to face it.

Only to find empty air. Water dripped into a puddle from his hands, landing where the figure had just been standing only seconds prior. Jonathan's mind worked in dizzying speeds to try and find some solution to this. To explain it all away under a simple organized rational view. He was just tired, that's it. He's exhausted and his body was having strange auditory and visual hallucinations. He was more stressed out now than when the epidemic had struck London, or more like, he hadn't calmed down since then. Always on the brink of some new project and working himself up until he drops from sleep deprivation. Not exactly a healthy habit for a doctor.

He took another shaky breath and turned back to the sink, shaking it out of his head with a panicked desperation. He unbuttoned the front of his shirt to clean the fabric in the sink, intending to change his clothes from the spare pair he kept in his locker. He had just finished hanging up his damp shirt above the sink to air dry and retrieved a clean dry shirt from his locker, fingers focused intently on buttoning it up when he glanced towards his desk. He stumbled in shock when he found a towel folded up and lying neatly on the bar stool waiting to be used. He searched his office with a critical eye trying to find some wisp or trace of the mysterious figure but to no avail. With shaky hands he picked up the towel and forced himself to start cleaning up the spill. 

Maybe he will go home tonight and get some proper sleep. A change in routine would do him some good.

  
  
  
  


Jonathan couldn't get the image of that man out of his head. Something about him was so familiar, like a phantom from his past but he couldn't exactly put his finger on it. It nagged at him constantly, causing a disruption in his work as he found himself checking dark corners and quiet rooms for any sign of the figure as if his own personal boogeyman would pop out of the broom closet. He wasn't certain why he was so afraid of the man. He had protected him that first night in his bedroom. His second appearance was just as compassionate and gentle. Yet his appearance, Jonathan noted, resembled some angel of death in a fashion. Like a monster that he'd expect to walk the battlefield to avenge the fallen and damned in some poetic soldier's fantasy. With wings spread and sword brandished, it would be the avenging angel for the lost and dying. He had to snicker to himself, as frightening as that would look from the trenches, imagining it was almost childish if he did say so himself. Similar to an Archangel he supposed. 

He was not a religious man but he had seen enough heavenly depictions of the saints and their angelic guardians to last him a lifetime. They were beautiful and worthy of the utmost praise but their meaning was often lost on him. It was peculiar, how now he was being haunted by such a soul. Maybe haunted wasn't the right term exactly. He suspected that maybe, his mind was finally coming to terms with what he went through in the war and was projecting this new phantom in a way that would force him to acknowledge it. Maybe he was having a mental breakdown. Who knew? He could always inquire about the thought to Edgar but then his friend would worry incessantly and what little peace Jonathan had managed to obtain in his day to day would be shattered by the Administrator's ever constant mother henning. He was not willing to sacrifice the sanctity of his peace over this, no thank you.

He tried his best to push the thoughts from his mind and focus on his work, but it was inevitable. He couldn't hide the dark bags under his eyes or the wired tension in his shoulders. Dr. Swansea had taken notice as did several other colleagues. It was Nurse Branagan who had stepped forward and pressed the matter more openly, confronting Jonathan with her concerns. He had politely dismissed them but she was a stubborn woman above all else. Which is what landed him in Dr. Swansea's office for another _talk._

He sighed as he slumped into the seat opposite his friend and prepared himself for a long winded lecture. To his surprise, the lecture did not come. To his even greater surprise, Edgar informed him that he was putting him on a two week mandatory leave. There was no choice in the matter. No prolonged negotiation. No apologetic sympathies. Edgar was concerned, greatly and he refused to let Jonathan endanger his health and wellbeing. The epidemic was over, their workload had subsided to idle patients here and there. He hadn't stopped working himself to the bone since the Spanish Flu and his colleagues were terribly worried that it will eventually break him.

It wasn't his work that had kept him up at night or forced him to seek out idle distractions if only to quiet some parts of his mind. Still, Edgar gave him no other choice and he was forced to submit to his directive and take the demanded break.

Jonathan realized, rather pathetically, that he had never had so much free time in his adult life. Normally he was doing _something_ productive whether it was research, studying, treating patients, crafting new serums or fighting a war. He had never had so much downtime and had no idea what to do with it. He supposed reading was a good start, but he was anxious and restless. His hands and feet demanded to be moving constantly. He spent an entire day cleaning his home, scrubbing the floors and dusting the shelves until all was spotless. He reorganized the library and sorted through old knickknacks and baubles that his family had collected over the years, reminiscing the fond memories that accompanied them. If that resulted in him crying like a child over a box of his mother's oil drawings, then that was nobody's business but his own.

Three days in, he was bored. He ran out of chores to do. His To-Do list to fix things that had gone unattended was already checked off due to late nights and idle hands. His knack for tinkering and building had not been limited to childish toys and clever shortcuts in the Hospital tents. Leaky faucets and loose windows were no challenge for the doctor. He didn't mind being elbow deep in some new project to keep his mind working and revolving around the beautiful simplicity of mechanisms and the rationality of their functions.

It was when he ran out of these tasks that he fell into the troubles that plagued him. By the fourth day, he decided a sunny afternoon walk was in order as he strolled through Temple Garden Plaza and the adjacent park. He stopped to purchase a few new books to add to his collection and indulged in his devilish sweet tooth when he passed by the sweets shops.

He was just returning from his shopping trip when a shadow shifted in his peripheral. He ignored it, refusing to acknowledge the specter and its looming visage. He had spent every day of his break with his head down and eyes fixed on some dull point in an attempt to ignore the presence that followed him. It worked, for the most part. Just fate did not favor him this day when the shadow he ignored had taken on a completely new shape. And it wasn't just a shadow, but a very real man.

It wouldn't be the first time Jonathan has found a gun pointed in his face. The streets of London were rampant with thugs and gangs during the epidemic and he's crossed paths with more than his fair share of troublesome types. He was not a man easily frightened by mundane conventions. He's seen more than enough carnage for one lifetime and he didn't let the peacocking of desperate aggressive men intimidate him. He most certainly didn't find the shabby man in front of him frightening, revolver or no. Not when he had a very real specter plaguing his very existence.

Jonathan held his hands up in a placating gesture, the bag he had been carrying was set at his feet so as not to antagonize his mugger any further with hidden threats. "You're making a mistake, sir." Jonathan tried for easy persuasion even as the barrel of the man's gun pressed into his jaw. He recognized the shaken man, the wild manic eyes and sweaty disposition as he quickly wiped a handkerchief over his face in anxious motions. Booth Digby was a name that stuck in Jonathan's brain since he first met the man on the docks, often in the company of one Edwina Cox. Formerly, Clay Cox's wife but after her husband was killed in a fatal stabbing and succumbed to his terrible injuries, she ran the infamous Wet Boot Boys to her cold little heart's content.

"You're that fancy doctor always giving away medicine and such." Booth snapped, glancing down the alleyway to ensure nobody would be sticking their nose into his business. "Just do as I say and you won't get hurt." He assured. "I want those drugs, Doc."

"My apologies Mr. Digby but I don't currently have any on me." Jonathan reached for the lapels of his jacket, the firm press of the gun warned him to move slower as the doctor exposed his empty pockets. All he had was a pocket watch, a revolver and a few shillings left over from his earlier purchases. Hardly enough to consider a haul but Booth demanded he hand them over. Jonathan was not inclined to do that whatsoever. Call it foolish pride, but being a pacifist did not mean he was eager to be bullied out of his personal effects. The revolver was his from his service days and the pocket watch was his father's, left to him as his final parting gift to his son. The shillings he didn't care for and would hand over without concern. But the sentimental property was something he refused to part with.

"You think I'm a joke, Doc?" Booth growled as he drew back the hammer on the revolver. His hands were shaking, Jonathan could see the sweat beading down his brow and the way it stained the collar of his cheap suit. He may work for Edwina Cox, but Mr. Digby was not a naturally violent man. Jonathan had seen enough of his type in the war to know he had nothing to fear from him. At least to a point. If he was any twitchier around that trigger, Jonathan may end up on the wrong end of a misfire.

Jonathan's attention shifted from the trembling hand wrapped around the grip of the revolver to the very tangible and real figure approaching Booth from behind. The doctor's eyes widened in shock as the specter from his nightmares stalked through the alley with calculated movements, a predator all its own. The shroud, Jonathan noted, was thinner now. Less like a thick velvet and more like a cotton shawl. He could see the shallow dips that accentuated the man's underlying features. The curve of his cheek bones and the hollow sunken formation where his eyes should be. His hand rested on the pommel sticking out of his coat, drawing Jonathan to shake his head slowly.

"No." It was pointed, aimed towards the specter but Booth assumed it was an answer for him. His lips curled back into a smug grin, taking the sudden pallor on Jonathan's face as fear from the doctor. Unbeknownst to Booth, Jonathan wasn't afraid _of him_ but _for him._ He had seen this specter in action. He had witnessed the sharpness of its sword as it cut down nightmarish ghouls in quick succession. He _felt_ its presence and the physical touch on his body. Some part of him feared that his hallucination could inflict very real pain upon Mr. Digby.

The specter stiffened, shoulders drawn tight before relinquishing the tension in a disappointed shake of its head. It drew its hand away from the sword, letting the length of its coat conceal the weapon back over before lifting its fingers in a beckon for silence. The doctor obliged as he watched with close criticism as the specter approached Mr. Digby from behind. He wound back his boot and struck a discarded bottle with the toe of his shoe sending it skidding loudly down the alley. Booth jolted, a yelp of surprise causing him to whirl around on the specter. His gun aimed at the shadows that curled along the cobblestones from themselves. Booth's frantic movements telegraphed that he heard the figure but he could not see him, a startling discovery on Jonathan's end which he didn't linger long to admire.

"What was that?" Mr. Digby's panic was palpable as Jonathan lunged at him from behind. A well placed pressure against the man's neck thwarted his attempts to struggle free. He went limp against Jonathan's chest as the doctor carefully laid him down to rest against the wall.

"I'll take this." Jonathan hummed as he removed the gun from the gangster's possession and tucked it into his own pocket. He gathered up his belongings and briskly made his way out of the alley before Mr.Digby woke up. He estimated he had maybe ten minutes to flee. He did not address his mystery savior until he was safely tucked away inside his childhood home, frantically pacing about as he processed what exactly just happened.

The upside? He wasn't crazy and this thing truly did exist. The downside? He was currently being followed by something nobody else could see. That didn't soothe his nerves about it any better and neither did the prospect that it was _protecting_ him? It seemed like it. Would it have killed Booth had Jonathan not told it to desist? Would that make him responsible for a man's death had the specter gone through with it? There were so many questions racing through his mind now and none of them could be properly answered which only frustrated him more.


End file.
